The Family Business
by Fettkat
Summary: As though being a teenager wasn't bad enough, having a high functioning sociopath for a father has to be! Sherlock has to face the trials and tribulations of raising a teenage daughter, with only John Watson by his side to help. And Jacqueline Elizabeth Holmes has to navigate the pressures of growing up with the expectations of joining the family business.
1. The Unexpected Offspring

"Daddy!"

It was a word John had never, even in his short acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, ever anticipated to hear him called.

But there was a smile incipient in the voice and, as they turned to meet it, John saw something else he had never, in his short acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, expected to see:

A very affectionate smile stealing over his face and reaching all the way up to his clear blue eyes.

The attractive young girl from whom the hithertofore unexpected expression had emerged was striding down the station platform at King's Cross towards them, dragging a large suitcase and beaming. She appeared an elegant fifteen, wearing a short brown and green plaid skirt underneath a chocolate cardigan with her school's emblem monogrammed on her left breast. Her long brown hair was tied into a thick braid which fell over a shoulder and her blue-grey eyes sparkled with warmth as she levelled them directly at her father.

_Sherlock has a daughter?!_

John was still struggling to assimilate this fact as the girl, paying absolutely no attention to him, neared them, abandoned her luggage and rushed forward to enfold his flatmate in a loving hug.

A hug which was just as warmly returned.

"There she is! Welcome home, darling. How was term?"

"Elementary. As always."

The casually flippant roll of the eyes was all too familiar to John. He tried to muster a smile out of his shock as the duo turned anticipatorily towards him.

"I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, darling. This is Dr. John Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan. We're sharing new rooms now, at Baker Street."

The girl accepted John's outstretched hand with a disarming smile.

"Daddy, what _did_ you do to trap him into living with you? You must know he's a nightmare. That's why I ran away to boarding school!"

Sherlock regarded his daughter with a look of gentle reproof.

"No. It was to get away from your mother. Not me."

"_Both_ of you! And her boyfriends!"

John watched them banter, still wondering if it was all a trick.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, love?"

The girl's eyes twinkled with mirth.

"Jacqueline Elizabeth. My mother was far too pretentious and named me after the late American First Lady _and _Her Majesty! I usually go by a much more straight-forward Jackie."

John nodded.

"Very pleased to meet you, Jackie. Your...er, father has told me absolutely nothing about you."

Young Jackie's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Just popped me onto you, did he? I wonder why... Daddy? Thoughts?"

They both waited for Sherlock's reaction although he seemed to be momentarily engaged in following the course of another gentleman who was studying a piece of paper in his hands and anxiously checking the departures board.

"Hmmm? Oh nothing. The subject simply never came up. That man... I'm wondering as to whether I should alert the authorities to him. He's flown in from Sao Paolo and taken the train from Gatwick. He's uncommonly nervous and he's headed to Amsterdam. I'm pretty sure he's got either cocaine or heroin hidden in a false bottom of his suitcase..."

Meeting the quizzical stares of his two companions, he huffed slightly.

"Expensive watch, but cheap overcoat. Carrying only one piece of luggage, and that too, abnormally big. His hair has been dyed, recently and carelessly, and

the only timing on that board which has been delayed is the Eurolines to Amsterdam. Suspicious behaviour much?"

Jackie pursed her lips.

"No! Not enough to arrest a man on."

"I'm pretty sure."

"One day you'll be wrong and I won't have a likely innocent man harrassed on one of your conjectures."

"John has far more faith in me than you do."

"I know you for far longer than he does."

"I'm most probably right."

"You most probably are. But I've just got home for the holidays and I refuse to be dragged around police stations while you condescend to explain to them what they've obviously missed. Another few kilos of smack making their way onto the Continent via our fair city is not going to plunge our world into any further chaos than it's already in whereas I very well might plunge your life into chaos if we don't take a cab home straight away and call for some lunch."

Her logic was indefatigable and John saw Sherlock dither.

"Daddy. Narcotics isn't your department. Murder is. The day you pass a man with blood seeping out of his pocket from a hurriedly stashed knife, you have my blessings to call in the cavalry."

Sherlock sighed and caved. John wouldn't have sworn to it, but he felt Jackie had played her cards of filial influence well.

He grabbed the stroller handle as they turned towards the exit and felt Jackie touch his arm.

"I'm the normal one in the family, but trust me. They need us around far more than they're willing to admit. I'm glad you've agreed to move in with him, Dr. Watson. I think it's going to be good for him."

John regarded the young woman appraisingly. He was beginning to like her and she had already proved herself far wiser then her years would otherwise suggest. He wondered what this relationship would turn out to be like.


	2. His Greatest Mistake

"I'm still waiting."

Sherlock Holmes lay prostrate on the sofa, his forefingers lightly touching his lips, his eyes closed, concentrating, while John regarded him with vague exasperation from his armchair.

"Very well."

"Waiting for an explanation from you."

"About what? I already explained to you how I could tell the woman in the restaurant was a lesbian, despite her precious husband apparently not having a clue!"

John huffed impatiently.

"Oh stop acting dense, Sherlock! I meant Jackie!"

Sherlock turned to him, a perplexed frown creasing his brows.

"What's there to explain about Jackie?"

John's eyebrows shot up.

"Really? There's nothing to explain? Well let me just hop in and give you a clue! How is it that you have a daughter I have never even heard you mention, Sherlock? I mean, nothing! Not even a photograph! You've never even mentioned her name! And today, out of the blue, you drag me to the station and boom! You're a dad! Tell me I have no cause to be even the slightest bit suspicious?"

Sherlock's frown only deepened as he lifted himself upon his elbow to stare at his friend.

"What's there to be suspicious about? I have a daughter. Plenty of folks have daughters. Someday you might even have one."

John clenched his fist to keep himself calm.

"Yes, yes I realise that," he said through his teeth.

"My question is, how?"

Sherlock's eyebrows jumped.

"Hold on there. You... you do know where babies come from, don't you, John? Because I'm afraid if you have to ask me-"

"Yes! I know where babies come from! For God's sake, Sherlock! I swear you're simply avoiding the topic!"

Sherlock flopped back into his languid position on the settee and covered his eyes with his arm.

John waited patiently through the ever lengthening silence.

"I had her when I was twenty, John. Her mother was at the only party I ever went to in college. Visiting with a friend who happened to be a batchmate's girlfriend. It was the only time I ever got drunk, too, and mind you, I was tricked into it! Then two years pass by without me receiving even a word and then I bump into them at Victoria, one bloody day. Her mother barely recognised me, I tell you! I barely even glanced at the child. We exchanged pleasantries and somehow, in conversation, she mentioned that she was taking the kid out for her birthday. Took me about ten seconds to do the math. What do you say when you meet your daughter for the first time, John? We just stared at each other. Have you seen she's got my eyes? I hadn't known, John. Her father hadn't let her have an abortion and she hadn't figured I'd be interested. She's well enough off, though. Comes from money. Hasn't married yet, but I hear she gets around. Her dad used to be fond of Jackie. They were close. Closer to him than her mother. She was awfully upset when he died. He forbade me from ever having her over until she was atleast five years old. He had a thing for setting down rules. Seemed to enjoy it. I would visit, when I could, spend an evening with the child. Don't think she even fully understood who I was until she was older. Now I have her over for a week in the summer. We meet, have dinner when we can, when she's down for the hols. I used to have her spend every alternate weekend with me... before she left for boarding school..."

Sherlock let his voice trail away and John saw him bite his lip as his eyes studied the ceiling.

"What about her mother?"

"What about her?"

"Haven't you- and she- I mean, it would have been the honourable thing to do..."

"Good God, man! Are we still living in the nineteenth century?! This is the age of the modern dysfunctional family. A role we fulfill perfectly. Jackie's mother and I have nothing between us. Except her, of course. We're civil, but little more. She has her procession of lovers about whom, as a matter of course, I care little than less. Jackie's used to it, so it rarely bothers her."

John listened to it all with his head in a whirl. He marvelled at how a sane, bright young girl like Jackie could have possibly come out of this mess!

"It was the one mistake I ever made, John."

John was shaken from his reverie by Sherlock's oddly thoughtful voice.

"You call your daughter a mistake, Sherlock?"

"The biggest and most terrifying I have had to face yet..."


	3. A Dark and Stormy Night

_**A/N: Bit of a romantic interlude involving my OC. This chapter takes place after "The Blind Banker" and contains atleast one explicit scene, so recommended for teens and older. **_

Raz froze, in the middle of shaking his spray can, his whole body tensing beneath the faded grey trenchcoat he wore. He turned slowly. The light was dim at best, at the underside gallery by the banks of the Thames, besides it was late and pouring rain. The silence stretched out, interrupted only by the steady patter of hard raindrops as he warily noticed the shadow standing outlined at the entrance, the water dripping off the hem of her short dress, her chest heaving as though she were panting after a race.

Finally, he broke the silence.

"What are you doing here?"

His own heart was hammering in his chest for it hadn't taken him an instant to recognise the figure who was standing there. He couldn't believe she was back. It stirred the faintest trace of hope within him, a hope he didn't dare let flower.

"Don't you know?"

Her voice was soft, but ragged, breathless.

Raz stepped forward, perhaps to see her better. He hadn't been wrong. It really was her, but she was drenched through to her skin, raising a shivering hand to brush away the strands of dark hair that were plastered to her forehead.

"You- uh... Your dad made it pretty clear he didn't like it-uh... that we... You shouldn't be here, Jackie."

The girl, because that was all she was, no more than sixteen, small, lithe and with an impetuousness that made his pulse race and his brain overheat, looked at him and her eyes flashed in the near-darkness.

"Seems like you care about my dad more than you care about me, huh, Raz?"

He walked towards her, his arm stretched out imploringly.

"No, Jackie! You know that's not true! It's just I..."

And here he had to stop and hang his head in shame.

It was true he wasn't scared of Sherlock Holmes. No, it wasn't that. It was just that he knew what he'd said was true. He was just a lowlife, living on the streets, giving the coppers a run for their money. He wasn't good enough for Jackie. He never would be.

Her eyes still continued to bore into him.

"Well?" she demanded, her hands planted on her hips, still standing in the rain.

"Come inside, Jackie. You'll catch your death of cold out there!" he pleaded.

She conceded at last, stepping in hesitantly. Raz shrugged off his eighth-hand coat and held it out to her. Her hand, as she reached for it was trembling, whether with cold or something more, Raz couldn't guess.

She watched him from beneath her lowered lashes.

"So it's over then?" she said, each of her words a blade of ice through his heart.

Raz turned away, battling valiantly against the tears he knew he would rather die than let her see.

"Guess so."

"Raz?"

"Yeah?"

"Did... did it mean anything? To you? Did I mean anything?"

Why was she doing this to him?!

"Course you did, Jackie! You know you did."

"You called me... your special girl, that night. Was that a lie?"

"N-no. Oh God! Of course not! You were more than special! You were the best!"

He didn't know how it had happened. How they had ended up so close, one hand around her waist, another in her hair, her eyes gazing up into his, her face mere inches away.

"You don't care about Daddy, do you?"

Slowly, he shook his head.

"Then why are you doing this?"

Raz bit his lip.

"For you," he whispered. And then her lips were crushing his as the heat of her passion pushed him back up against the wall.

His head was reeling as he lost himself in her.

"Wait... you knew?"

Tearing herself from the inflamed kiss, Jackie met his eyes and nodded.

"And you came back? Why?"

Jackie shrugged off her coat and Raz couldn't help his eyes travelling down as though of their own accord. Her wet dress clung to her, emphasizing her curves, and a trickle of water, or perhaps even sweat rolled down from the hollow at the bottom of her throat to disappear in her cleavage. She might be only sixteen, but she had the body of a woman. Raz fought to control his breathing and his grip tightened around her waist as he physically restrained himself from doing anything more. But Jackie saw the raw desire spurting in his eyes and she unwound his hand from her back and guided it to her breast. He didn't move it away. He could feel the drumming of her heart beneath the moistness of her skin and his stricken eyes met hers.

"I came back," she said, her voice husky and low, "For this. For one last time. One last night. Together. For you."

Raz sent up a mental prayer as the two succumbed to their undeniable passion, their hands and bodies entangling once more as the rain continued to beat down on the concrete around and above them.

If there was a special hell reserved for him, atleast he would be going down there with the knowledge that the one who had driven him there felt exactly the same way.


	4. Bad Decisions

Sherlock was pacing. Up and down and up and down and up and down. John followed his incessant progress, thinking he would probably end up with a crick in his neck but enjoying it far too much to interfere.

"I mean it was _ghastly_, John! What in the world could she have been _thinking?!_"

John looked at his friend frankly with no sympathy whatsoever.

"She met him through you, you know."

Sherlock turned a ferocious gaze on him.

"That is not a satisfactory explanation. Or justification. Or whatever you meant it to be," he bit out.

John shrugged.

"And she wasn't even the least bit apologetic about it!"

John frowned a little.

"Sherlock, thanks to you, I don't think she knows what being apologetic even _looks_ like!"

His friend glared daggers, his lips pursing themselves into a thin line.

"You're not being helpful."

John, in his turn, didn't look the slightest bit apologetic either.

"I don't intend to be. I'm just wringing as much entertainment out of this as I can, which, by your usual standards is quite a lot!"

He stood, adjusting his jacket.

"And now, provided you have no objections to it, I'm off to a date of my own."

He was walking out of the door when Sherlock's question made him pause.

"Am I overreacting about this, John?"

John glanced over his shoulder.

"You're her father, Sherlock. You're _supposed_ to be overreacting when you catch your daughter snogging street ruffians under dark bridges at night!"

* * *

The knock that sounded on the door was dull and sullen. In perfect accordance with the young man who followed it.

Sherlock was waiting for him, sitting imperiously on his accustomed chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

Raz shifted and fidgeted uncomfortably, but didn't sit down. Nor was he offered a seat. Sherlock continued to regard him dispassionately.

"Look, I just wanted to say I done nothing wrong, 'right?"

"_Did._"

"What?"

"I _did_ nothing wrong. Nevertheless, I disagree."

Raz looked thoroughly discomfited.

"She came to me, you know. She was flirting with me too."

"She's sixteen."

Raz scratched the back of his neck.

"You talked to her?"

"I shall."

"Look, Sherlock... "

"Mr. Holmes."

"What?"

"That's Mr. Holmes to you, young man."

Raz scowled this time.

"Right. _Mr._ Holmes. Well, I'm sorry you had to see that the other night, but with all due respect, I don't think Jackie would like you telling her who she should be with."

Sherlock's eyes flashed menacingly.

"Another point we disagree on. As her father I believe I have every right to express concern regarding my daughter's choices."

Raz's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Especially when those choices involve someone like _me_, isn't that right, _Mr._ Holmes?"

He didn't bother to disguise his sarcastic stressing of the "Mr."

Sherlock didn't miss it, but allowed it to slide off, giving instead a humourless tight-lipped smile.

Raz continued.

"So you have no qualms about coming to us for exclusive information when it suits your conveniences and purposes, but the moment we start stepping too close for comfort, you feel it necessary to step in and act all uppity?"

Sherlock wasn't smiling any more.

"I trust I have always compensated suitably for the services I employ?"

Raz sized him up for a moment.

"Oh quite suitably, Mr. Holmes. Very suitably indeed."

He paused for a second, before turning to take his leave.

"It's a'right, Mr. Holmes. I understand the concerns of people like you when it comes to people like me. For their daughters. But I'd advise you to have a word with her first." Sherlock stirred.

"You needn't worry yourself about my making my feelings expressly clear to my daughter."

Raz stopped on his way out of the sitting room.

"I wonder how this works between you and her exactly? You act the part of the absentee father alright but believe you still reserve the right to tell her what to do? The Jackie I know isn't likely to take too kindly to that!"

Sherlock got to his feet.

"But you don't know my daughter and I'll thank you not to encourage this.. brief dalliance any further."

Raz raised his hands in mock placation.

"Oh I'll keep my distance from her, sir! The daughter of the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Your concerns have been noted. But I wonder if _you_ really know her either, as you say you do, tha's all."

And with that he was gone, leaving Sherlock feeling in equal parts confused and furious.

* * *

John came home the next morning to find the entire apartment clouded in blue-grey smoke. Sherlock was back on a bender.

He coughed as he walked in, batting the air in vain to dispel the haze.

His flatmate was stretched out prone on the sofa, an unlit cigarette dangling on his lips.

"So I take it last night didn't go so well?" he enquired by way of greeting.

"We had a screaming match, then she stomped her foot and left."

John raised his eyebrows.

"You let her go?"

Sherlock turned his fatigued gaze on him.

"They exhaust me, John."

John couldn't stifle his grin.

"I talked to the boy. He called me a snob. Or a prat. Something along those lines. I tried talking to Jackie. She went into a hysterical fit, started shouting at me that she's almost an adult and she doesn't need to be treated like a child, that she knows precisely what she's doing. She's _sixteen_, for goodness sake, John!"

He flopped his arm down wearily over his face. Still wearing his smirk, John walked over to open the windows.

"Is this my punishment?" he asked a moment later.

"Is this her retribution on me?"

John took his seat in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

"She's sixteen, Sherlock. She's going to fight with you and yell at you and stomp her feet at you. That's what teenagers _do_. But it doesn't mean she doesn't need you. To overreact. To tick her off when she's wrong. Sometimes, to say no, absolutely not. That's what fathers do."

Sherlock raised his arm and looked at him with pleading eyes.

"But it's so exhausting, John! Give me a murder any day."

John smiled affectionately.

"Welcome to fatherhood, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned.


	5. The Great Game- Victory

**_A/N: My alternative ending to "The Great Game" incorporating my OC, Jackie Holmes._**

_"I will burn the heart out of you..."_

…

_"Sorry, boys! I'm sooo changeable!"_

_..._

_"But then, everything I have to say has probably already crossed your mind."_

_"Then my answer has probably crossed yours..."_

_[End of Series 1, Episode 3, "The Great Game"]_

Eyes narrowed, the two arch-nemeses faced off along the length of the swimming pool. Sherlock kept his weapon steadfastly trained upon the jacket of explosives lying midway between them. John held his breath behind him, his heart already racing from the coursing of adrenaline that had been pumping in him all day.

The silence drew out, until...

"I don't think you want to do that, Sherlock."

The incipient malice in Moriarty's voice was no less for it's barely whispered tone.

Sherlock didn't deign to reply, his lips only thinning further, the glint in his eyes becoming only more determined, until...

Just for an instant, Moriarty flicked his eyes upward, and... was it a nod? John craned his neck around Sherlock's rigid figure to make sure.

There was a faint squeak at the opposite end of the pool, that of a door swinging open. A single yellow light glowed within and as John strained his eyes to look, he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting in a chair.

"I told you I could burn the heart out of you."

The voice of the reader held barely a tremble, but was dry with suppressed fear.

Sherlock's head whipped around, his eyes widening, his face growing, if possible, even paler. John's mouth was simply hanging open.

"Did you think I was joking?"

All at once, Moriarty, his snipers, all seemed to be forgotten as the two men took off at a dead run around the pool. But coming closer to it only made it more real.

Just within the old locker room doorway, a young girl was strapped securely to a high back chair. It didn't take long to guess why she was sitting frozen in place, she was covered in explosives. At a rough estimate, John figured there was twice enough explosive on her than there had been on any of the other victims.

Except that this wasn't just any victim.

This was any father's worst nightmare come true.

The girl sitting strapped in her own death-trap was Jackie.

"Careful, Sherlock!"

Moriarty's own voice this time sounded across the pool. He hadn't even moved to arrest their flight.

"I rigged her out in something special. It'll go off if you so much as touch it. See? I told her to be careful where she places her fingers."

Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of her, searching desperately for a defusing system. A big countdown clock strapped to her chest gave them a time of fifteen minutes.

Jackie's face was drained of all blood and she looked drawn. John realised she had probably been kept locked up for a couple of days now atleast.

Sherlock had not stopped his visual search since he'd seen her, but had not said a word yet.

Jackie was bravely holding back her tears and though John could see that she had been similarly outfitted to relay Moriarty's dictated spiels, much as he and all the other victims had been, she was raising her chin defiantly and gazing out beyond her father and him to face her captor.

"If you hurt me even the tiniest bit, Professor Moriarty, I can promise you this. My father will end you."

Her voice rang out with all her conviction in her hero.

Sherlock looked up, and just for a moment, their eyes met.

"Jackie..." he choked out.

Moriarty's laugh was chilling.

"Your faith in your father is adorable, little girl. But I don't think he's going to be able to save you this time!"

"Daddy?"

Jackie's eyes searched those of her father's for courage, for hope. To her infinite surprise, all she found was desperation and shock and... fear.

For the very first time, Jackie saw her father truly afraid and for the first time, something like a lump of ice settled in her stomach.

Sherlock scrabbled around the chair on his knees, careful not to touch anything sensitive. The inexorable timer continued to count down the minutes remaining of his daughter's life. John looked on, his own heart sinking under the weight of the helpless dread he felt for his friend and his daughter. Moriarty, continued to pace the other end of the pool, watching like a sharply dressed panther.

"Daddy!"

Jackie's voice held the whip of desperate urgency despite being as hushed as she could make it.

"Please! You can turn it off, can't you? I need you to do this for me."

"I'm... trying...!"

Beads of sweat stood out on Sherlock's forehead as he ran every possible combination of the wires through his head to figure out which would work. He couldn't risk even a chance of getting it wrong, not with Jackie's life at stake!

"Use your mind palace! You must have it in there, Daddy! You've got everything!"

Alas! Sherlock was only human. And being human, his brain's capacity was limited. Some things had to be deleted to make way for other, more important bits of knowledge while others he perhaps hadn't come to assimilate yet. Defusing Moriarty's lethal bomb appeared to fall in the latter category.

"I...I'm sorry, sweetheart," he whispered finally, falling back in dejection.

Jackie's eyes were wide with an all-consuming terror that made Sherlock's heart tighten to the point of bursting within his chest. Never had he felt so helpless, so completely useless in front of a rival.

"Daddy!"

It was all she could do not to scream. Ice cold tears had begun to roll down her cheeks. The timer now said six minutes. Her last six minutes on Earth!

She raised her eyes to her Uncle John, but even there found only helplessness and the raw sense of defeat.

Jackie pressed her lips together hard, trying to stop them trembling, and closed her eyes. Maybe it was all just a bizarre dream and all she had to do was wake up. Opening her eyes doused that faint hope as well. They were all still there, on the edge of a giant swimming pool, her father defeated at her feet, and his enemy gloating in his soon to be completed victory.

"Why is this happening to me?" she forced out through her gritted teeth.

"Why do you have enemies who would do something like this, Daddy?"

He couldn't save her. All this time, she'd put him up on a pedestal, but when it really counted, when it was her very life at stake, he had failed her. He had failed her as a father and as a hero.

Sherlock could hear the faint buzzing in his brain that told him panic was setting in. His daughter had less than four minutes to live! But possibly even more painful than that was seeing the disappointment in her eyes as she realised his failure.

He scrambled to his feet.

"Moriarty!" he yelled across, prepared to beg, to grovel, to do whatever it took.

"You win! Let her go. She's only a child! It's me you really want, isn't it? You can do whatever you want with me. Just let her go!"

Moriarty stopped in his pacing and slowly turned to face them, clasping his hands calmly behind his back.

"But this is what I want, Sherlock. To break you. To make sure you never recover from this failure again. I have nothing against the girl, personally. She's just a tool for me to get what I want. So, I'm afraid, you're just going to have to stand there and watch."

The smile, like slick poison, spread across his face.

The blood was pounding in Sherlock's brain like a drum as he whirled, willing to make a last dash at trying to save his daughter's life, but he was caught off-guard as she threw herself against the back of the chair to rock away from his reach. Hearing John's stifled shout behind him, he could tell he wasn't the only one taken by surprise.

"Jackie! What are you doing?!"

"Go."

Her voice was as hard as tempered steel even though she resembled a pale ghost, her eyes shining bright with tears.

"Take Uncle John and go! He's not going to take you down with me. And...and tell mum... Tell her I always loved her..."

The timer on her chest read 1:36, then 1:35.

"Go!" she screamed at them with all her strength.

Sherlock tried to reach for her, but stuffed his hand in his mouth instead as she threatened to rock herself again.

"What are you standing there for?! Run, you fools!"

1:00...0:59...0:58...

Reluctantly, John reached for Sherlock's shoulder, but father and daughter's eyes were locked on each other.

"Jackie..."

"Just go, Daddy."

"No...No...I can't just leave you..."

"Uncle John? Take care of him for me, will you?"

She was resigned. Determined to put up a brave face as she went out. It was almost more than Sherlock could bear.

0:29... 0:28... 0:27...

"Daddy! _Go!_"

She was screaming at them again. John had to physically pull Sherlock from his daughter's side even though he resisted him the entire way.

Jackie closed her eyes and took one last deep shuddering breath...

0:03... 0:02... 0:01... 0:00...

_tbc..._


	6. The Great Game- Defeat

0:03... 0:02... 0:01... 0:00...

Jackie opened her eyes and blinked.

The first thought that entered her head was, _Am I dead?_

Somehow, it didn't look like it, yet it seemed the whole world was caught in a freeze frame.

A whole minute ticked by with no sound, no movement, nothing.

_[Moriarty's Staying Alive ringtone starts to play]_

Ok, if this was death, it was beginning to get seriously weird. Slowly, Jackie lifted her head and turned.

Sherlock and John hadn't gotten far. There they were, standing only a few metres away, but now their attention too had been arrested by the peculiar sound. Across the vast swimming pool separating them, Moriarty rolled his eyes, huffed and reached into his pocket.

"Do you mind if I get that?"

No one replied.

"Hello?" he spoke into the phone.

"Yes of course it is! What do you want?"

In an instant his face had gone very nearly apoplectic.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" he roared into the receiver.

Even the length of a swimming pool away from him, Jackie, still in her bomb-chair, winced.

"Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will _skin_ you."

Jackie turned her head, this time to catch her father's gaze. He met hers, his eyes still the very image of stunned astonishment.

_I don't think I'm dead,_ she mouthed at him.

Sherlock blinked.

Moriarty was still pacing and his hand gripped his mobile phone so tightly his knuckles had almost turned white.

"Wait," he said into it and then clicked his fingers in the air. The sniper sights vanished from all of their bodies.

"Sorry. Wrong day to die. You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."

At last it seemed Sherlock had found his voice.

"You-you... the bomb... it was a hoax?"

Moriarty clicked his tongue impatiently.

"Oh she's far too valuable as leverage against you to waste on a mere demonstration, Sherlock. I only wanted to show you what I'm capable of. She's free to go now."

Without another thought, he returned to his phone conversation.

"So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into... shoes."

And he walked out the door.

* * *

Sherlock was at Jackie's side in less than an instant, literally tearing the wires off to free her. But the girl herself remained surprisingly quiet and still, closing her eyes and simply drawing in deep lungfuls of air.

With John's help, the two men had her free of the wretched trap in less than a minute, but for a moment, she didn't move.

"Jackie..."

Sherlock's voice was hoarse with emotion and relief. He held out his hand to help her out. But the shaky half-smile on his face evaporated entirely when she opened her eyes and looked at him.

It struck even John how hardened they made her look, how much older than her mere seventeen years.

"We're going home," she stated through clenched teeth, turned on her heel and marched toward the door, followed, after a brief pause, by the two bewildered men.

* * *

The taxi ride back to Baker Street was awfully silent, filled with tension you could have cut with a knife. Jackie's anger was simmering barely below the surface and John could see she was on the verge of an explosion. For the first time in his life, he could also see Sherlock looking almost amusingly contrite and apologetic, trying to say something, to even catch his daughter's eye, but she continued to steadfastly ignore him.

As soon as the cab pulled up to their curb, she was the first one out and she literally ran out and up the stairs.

"Jackie! Wait!"

Sherlock was next after her, leaving John, as usual, to pay the cabbie.

For once, he didn't bother complaining and, settling the fare as quickly as possible, followed at their heels.

He bounded up the stairs and walked directly into a full fledged face-off.

Not for the first time he wondered at the striking similarities between Sherlock and his daughter, especially when they argued.

"...doesn't even seem like you _care!_"

Sherlock's face was white as he faced his daughter's accusations and perhaps only John could appreciate how deeply they struck him since they were coming from Jackie.

"You know that's not true."

Sherlock's voice was level, but brittle, possibly finally exhausted by all the anxiety and the twists and turns this case had taken.

Jackie's eyes spat flame.

"Oh isn't it? You're my _father,_ Daddy! Don't you think it's about time you started acting like it?! You can't even _protect_ me! Your enemies can just pluck me out of school, keep me in cold storage for two days and threaten to blow me up for their own sick entertainment and all you have to say is that there was _nothing you could do?!_ Am I supposed to accept that as an excuse from the great Sherlock Holmes?!"

"You weren't the only one he was threatening to kill, Jackie."

Sherlock's voice reflected his exhaustion.

"Which of the others would have mattered as much to you as me, Daddy?"

Jackie's voice was dangerously low as she leaned forward to make her point, but at this juncture, John couldn't help butting in.

"Hang on, you know that Moriarty was threatening to kill a bunch of people if your father didn't solve his riddles."

Jackie's full-fledged ire turned towards him now and despite himself, John stumbled back a step.

"What I now know for a certainty," she said, in that same bitten voice, "is that my life doesn't matter half as much to my own father as his little games with a crazed maniac! He was making you jump through his hoops, did you realise that, Daddy? And yet you couldn't call his bluff!"

John looked from one to the other, but seeing Sherlock bite his lip and hesitate, continued to intermediate for his friend.

"Jackie, love," he tried to reason, "We couldn't dare to."

Jackie's eyes narrowed venomously.

"Didn't dare to, or didn't care to? Weren't you busy having too much fun puzzling out his psycho scavenger hunt to pause and think that there were actual human _lives_ at stake?"

John frowned.

"Your father _did_ save those lives-"

The girl shook her head in disappointment, her lips curling up in a snarl.

"You still don't get it, do you, Uncle John? Moriarty wouldn't have started this game in the first place if he didn't _know_ Daddy would play. And play he did. It's the thrill of the gamble, Uncle John. He's so addicted that he'll even put _my_ life at stake!"

John couldn't think why Sherlock wasn't making even an attempt to defend himself. He had sunk down onto the sofa and was simply staring at the floor.

He stepped forward, trying to reach Jackie and comfort her after the ordeal she had been through, but she didn't let him.

"This isn't the first time, of course," she said, bitterly.

"All my life I've seen him put his cases ahead of me. And I've never complained. Not ever. Because I always thought that if it was ever _me_ in danger, he would never let anything happen to me."

One angry tear rolled down Jackie's cheek as her turbulent emotions found a vent at last.

"I _trusted_ him. I _believed_ in him, Uncle John. Nobody could touch me if _my_ Daddy could help it. He'd do _anything_."

The tears had now turned into a torrent upon her face as the full extent of her anguish burst through.

"But he won't, will he? He won't give up his games, not even for me. His job means more to him than my _life_!"

Angrily she scrubbed at her face. John's heart was breaking to hear her, but she refused to let him near.

"You're disappointed in me. You have every right to be."

Sherlock's all-too measured voice underscored her passionate outburst. He finally seemed to have mustered the strength to respond.

"But you should never have made me into a hero, Jackie. I never was and never shall be one."

This only served to rile his daughter further.

"Right. So this is all _my_ fault then, isn't it? For placing any faith at all in my own father. He saves the world, but can't save me. What am I supposed to understand from that, Daddy? I'll tell you what. I'm a chip. A pawn. Just like all the rest. To be picked up and played with by anyone who wants to see you dance. Just tell me one thing, all right? Do I mean _anything_ at all to you? Or am I just wasting my time?"

Sherlock leaned back and met her eyes frankly.

"You mean everything to me."

Jackie only met her father's honest gaze with iron-clad contempt.

"Then you wouldn't have a job that made you enemies who would toy with your daughter's life."

And with that she stormed out the door.

John waited for Sherlock to follow her, but he didn't. He only rested his head against the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and let out a long breath. So he rushed out after her himself.

"Jackie! Wait!"

She stopped at the sound of his voice and turned. John could still see the tear-stains fresh upon her face.

"Jackie. It's not true. Your father loves you. He would do anything for you."

Jackie watched him for a moment.

"Do you think he'd give up his practice for me?" she asked slowly.

John was about to reply but then he hesitated.

Jackie gave an ironic smile.

"You have your answer, Uncle John," she replied, starting to turn back.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. To mum. For the first time, she seems to be the lesser of my disappointments."

It would be a very long time before Sherlock saw his daughter again.


	7. The Professor

_**A/N: Just a bit of an epilogue to the previous segment concluding "The Great Game" story-arc.**_

When John had called her up with a curt invitation to a private lunch at a restaurant in a neighbourhood they both knew her father and her Uncle Mycroft abhorred, Jackie had suspected something was up. And throughout their meeting, there had been a searching steeliness hiding behind John Watson's level gaze.

As they sat lingering over dessert, Jackie finally huffed and set her spoon aside.

"All right, enough with the cold shoulder treatment, Uncle John. What's this all about?"

John regarded her silently for a while and then set his coffee cup down on its saucer with a clink.

"It's just that it got me thinking how a smart young woman like you with her father's brains and far more good sense, ended up tied to a chair with a live ticking bomb strapped to her chest beside a London swimming pool a few weeks ago."

Jackie gave him a thin-lipped mirthless smile.

"I see Daddy's methods have begun to wear off on you. Well then, would you believe me if I said bad choices?"

John folded his arms across his chest.

"You've made those before. I wouldn't expect you to make the same kind of mistake twice."

Jackie's smile remained humourless.

"You overestimate me, Uncle John. Sometimes I'm just an ordinary teenager, and prone to acting as such."

John's eyes narrowed.

"Don't try and play me for a fool, Jackie," he warned.

Jackie heaved a sigh.

"I would never dream of doing any such thing, Uncle John. You must believe me. I am telling the truth."

Nevertheless, John didn't appear fully convinced.

"Explain," he demanded.

Jackie cast a furtive glance around the semi-busy eating joint.

"Not here. You know Uncle Mycroft's got ears everywhere. And I'm not about to humiliate myself for his entertainment. Or my father's."

John pursed his lips, but Jackie remained adamant.

"Very well then," he finally conceded, scraping back his chair and throwing his napkin on the table, "Where would _you _ prefer to go?"

* * *

They ambled past the Serpentine and through the vast green expanse of Hyde Park as they walked, pausing to look at the ducks and swans and even once for an ice-cream.

Jackie hugged herself as she told John the tale, unable to look him in the eyes and instead gazing down into the depths of the river miserably.

"He was only a substitute at first and besides, he didn't even come in using his real name. Ours was the first class he taught, Mr. Brook, our new music teacher. He took an interest in me right from that very first day. In hindsight, I suppose that should have acted as a warning, but…what can I say, Uncle John? I suppose I was enjoying the attention."

John bristled inwardly, marvelling once again at Moriarty's innate ability to locate his opponent's vulnerabilities and exploit them quite so fiendishly.

"He was charming, he was handsome, he was an older man, a _professor, _no less, taking an interest in a sixteen-year-old! Need I say I was flattered. And he never spoke about Daddy, not once. He didn't seem remotely interested in the rest of my family, except for the fact that they existed, of course, he was only fascinated by me."

Of course. He must have only needed the simple verification that Jackie was truly related to those he suspected. John's insides churned sourly.

"I had no idea who he really was, you have to believe me, Uncle John!"

Jackie lifted her pleading eyes up to him and John's heart twisted within.

"He would invite me over for tea to his office and commend my talent as a pianist, even in private. He would lend me records from his own personal collection, he even gave me one to keep once. He never made a move that would make me suspect ...well, you know, that he was a pervert or a paedophile, for example. So I let myself fall for him, crush on him, fantasise about him, fool that I was!"

Jackie's voice held a too-adult bitterness that John knew was the result of her recent ordeal. Nevertheless, it still pained him.  
"I can understand perfectly how it happened, Jackie," he assured her grimly, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder.

Jackie's lower lip was trembling now.

"But you know how he got me? To go with him that night? He came right into our dorm room and woke me up. He told me the school had received an urgent call from my family and that I was to return to London at once. I was so scared, Uncle John! I thought something terrible had happened to Daddy! And then he showed me a number. It was Uncle Mycroft's office number. He said he had called the school from that number and Professor Brook had called him back on it to confirm. He told me he had heard from Uncle Mycroft directly. I didn't doubt him after that."

Jackie heaved a sigh.

"I suppose I should have called Uncle Mycroft myself to confirm, but at the time, I couldn't see how he would have ever got his number unless he had received a call from it."

John chewed his lower lip, frowning in concentration.

"Mycroft would never be so careless, Jackie. Not with regards to you. I know that. I would have expected him to keep the school under covert surveillance for the simple fact that you go there!"

Jackie looked at him.

"He didn't know what he looked like," she replied quietly.

"Even if the school had been under surveillance, Uncle Mycroft's men wouldn't have been able to identify him. Nobody knew who he really was or what he really looked like until he revealed himself… that night, did they, Uncle John?"

John, sadly, could not refute the logic in her deduction. He tightened his hold protectively around her shoulders, looking around as twilight fell over the great cosmopolis of London.

"I suppose you don't want me to tell your father? About any of this?"

Unconsciously, he felt her muscles bunch under his arm.

"I'd thank you not to, Uncle John, if it's all the same to you."

Suddenly a hint of iciness had crept into her tone.

John sighed.

"And I suppose it's further of no use trying to convince you to forgive him? That he still loves you?"

Jackie looked away, but John had no doubt of the fresh stream of tears trickling down her cheeks.

He shook his head absently with an ironic smile, almost to himself.

"Oh Moriarty. He really does know how to do his job, doesn't he? He knows exactly how to get to his victims' most vulnerable points… and twist."

John made a vicious stabbing gesture with his free hand.

Jackie rested her head against his coat wearily and John looked down upon the head of the sadly troubled child.

_Hadn't the poor thing been through enough?_

"Are you going back to Baker Street, then?"

John nodded.

"I'll drop you off at your mum's first."

Jackie looked out over the dusky Mayfair thoroughfare as the sun dipped on it's way to set over Kensington Palace.

"He's won, hasn't he?" she finally managed to ask, her voice husky after her tears.

"Professor Brook? Moriarty? He's just going to get away with it?"

John grimaced in frustration.

"Well, atleast he's revealed himself. He doesn't have the cover of anonymity any more. Sherlock's going to hunt him down, Jackie, I promise. Your father-"

"My father!"

Jackie snorted in open contempt.

"Tell my father not to bother. His playmate lives another day to play with him. And he can go prancing along when he whistles."

John's heart ached on Sherlock's behalf, hearing Jackie's words. This rift between them would not be easily mended, he realised. What would Sherlock have to do to win back his daughter's trust? A trust Moriarty had so brutally destroyed?

Yes. Unfortunately, Moriarty had won. This time.

John gave a mirthless chuckle.

"What a criminal mastermind we've got on our hands, eh Jackie love?"

"Yeah. He should be giving classes in that. Dear old Professor Brook...no, rather Professor Moriarty…"


	8. The Reichenbach Fall

_**A/N: The journey of my original character, Jackie Holmes, through Sherlock Season 2, culminating in the Reichenbach Fall. Acts as a sort of prelude to the next half of my series.**_

She didn't allow herself to think about him. Atleast not except to remember how he'd disappointed her.

She didn't speak to him all summer. Or Christmas. And well into the new year. Even her mother grew worried. Her mother, who couldn't see beyond the new season's collection on Oxford Street. She asked her, hesitantly, whether she might want to call him, send a Christmas card, even a text. She only glared down each of her suggestions mutinously.

For his part, he respected her decision not to contact him and made no attempts to win her back.

She didn't begin to thaw until the slander started to appear in the daily papers.

No matter how disappointed she might be, no matter how much she still hurt, she could never question his integrity. Her quarrel with him was purely personal, but she knew he was no fraud.

As the papers continued their incessant coverage of his spectacular fall, something began to gnaw at her conscience. She knew, despite whatever pretence he must be putting up, how this must be affecting him. Could time heal all wounds? Perhaps atleast some.

Many times she picked up her phone, even typed in a short, innocuous text to break the ice, but in the end she could never hit _'send'_.

But the niggle in her heart kept growing worse. Where would all this end? Inspite of herself, she began to get worried.

* * *

But end it did. In that frantic buzzing of her iPhone with the caller ID making her brow pucker as she looked up from her A-Levels prep in the school library.

_Uncle John calling._

Even they hadn't spoken in months. Not since Christmas. She'd only texted him a happy new year and posted a link to a silly little video. He kept an eye on her via email. Sort of. But she could imagine he'd had his hands full taking care of him.

She walked out of the library to take the call.

"Hello? Uncle John? What's up?"

What he said next changed her forever.

The next thing she could remember was standing in front of that black door, still so familiar, as though she'd seen it only last week. Everything in between was simply a blur. She pounded up the stairs in desperation, brushing rather rudely past Mrs. Hudson, not paying any attention to her puffy eyes and swollen nose.

She didn't come to a stop until she had barged into the sitting room, her eyes sweeping it all over in a fraction of a second noticing the glaring absence of the one she looked for.

Only Uncle John sat in his old chair, looking far too old, even for his years, staring with blank eyes at the empty chair across from him.

"Uncle John?"

She couldn't hide the faint tremble in her voice. She hadn't been able to bring herself to believe it yet. She wouldn't believe it, until she heard it from Uncle John himself, face to face.

She didn't need to.

The moment he looked up, she knew it was all true.

* * *

How was he to tell her this?

Yes, they'd had it rough over the last several months, but _this_?

How was he to break the news he himself hadn't come to fully accept yet to an eighteen year old girl?

She was looking to him, her eyes begging him to tell her it wasn't true. John couldn't find the words.

He pushed himself out of his accustomed armchair and, without a word, walked over and took her into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Jackie," he found himself repeating over and over again, stroking her hair as her fists pounded helplessly against him and her tears soaked through his jacket.

"I'm so sorry, love."

* * *

As happens with all children who lose a parent early in their lives, somewhere deep down, she blamed herself.

She sat through all the condolences, the offered grieving comfort, in silence.

"You realise your father obviously made provisions for such an eventuality."

Mycroft Holmes's calm grated on her more than anything else. For once she wanted to wring some emotion out of the man.

_Your little brother is dead! Dead! Do you comprehend, Iceman?! My father is dead!_

She turned slightly and swallowed hard to stifle the sob rising in her throat.

"He knew the dangers his line of work entailed."

He sifted through a file of papers on his desk, feigning interest.

"He left a will. You are his principal heir."

Jackie shifted in her chair, gritting her teeth.

"He made me the executor, so I am to see that you have everything you need."

_I need my father, you unfeeling old croak!_

"Now, I gather you've completed your A-Levels?"

Ah yes. The A-Levels. It was a good thing she was naturally a brilliant student. The examinations had passed by in a post-traumatic haze.

"Yes."

"And have you heard from the colleges you applied to?"

Jackie met his dispassionate grey eyes with her own.

"You have their letters in front of you, don't you, Uncle? Why don't you tell me?"

The faintest flicker of a smile threatened to twist Mycroft's lips.

"I see you were accepted into your father's old college in Cambridge. For... criminal law."

He looked impressed, then looked up again.

"Did he know?"

Atleast the last was said with a touch of genuine sympathy.

Jackie looked away.

No. She hadn't gotten around to telling him. And now she never would.

"I'm not going."

The ice returned to her uncle's gaze and he pointedly steepled his fingers on his desk.

"And why not?"

She glared at him.

"I don't want to anymore."

He lifted his eyebrows.

"In reaction to his death? How is that a solution to anything, my dear?"

Jackie curled her hands into fists in an attempt to physically restrain herself from doing something regrettable.

"It's not meant to be a solution. I told you I no longer want to go to college. There are other things I could do."

"Such as?"

Jackie dithered, biting her lip.

"I don't know," she finally admitted.

Mycroft held her gaze for a moment longer and then nodded, almost to himself.

"Right then. I'll make the arrangements. You won't have to worry about a thing."

"No!"

All her restraint had failed and she was on her feet, balled up fists rigid at her side, almost ready to go to war against her own uncle.

"I'm _not_ going! I won't! You can't make me!"

"I could, but I would certainly not want to try, Jacqueline."

Her uncle's voice was edged with steel.

Jackie lifted her chin in defiance, her eyes blazing.

"You're not my father, Uncle Mycroft. Don't assume you can take his place. I thank you for your kind consideration, but with all due respect, you can take it and shove it up your nethers! I'm done with this."

She scraped her chair aside, tossed her mane of hair back and stalked out.

Mycroft watched his niece storm out and heaved a quiet sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was almost too painful how much she could remind him of Sherlock as a child.

After a while, he pushed his own chair back and walked out of his office into a secret operations monitoring room. Striding to a secure cabinet, he twisted a combination lock to open one section and took out an innocuous mobile phone.

_Lazarus,_ he typed, _We have a problem._

* * *

She stood before his gravestone, thick, hot tears blurring her vision of the smooth polished black marble bearing the undeniable legend, _"Sherlock Holmes"._

She searched for something to say, to bid him farewell, but she kept coming up blank.

"You didn't have to do this, you know," she finally blubbed out in a rush.

"You could have just grounded me like other dads. But no. Sherlock Holmes has to do something so completely out of the box that he ends up _in_ a box!"

She shook her head, wiping in vain at her tears.

"You're the _worst_ father ever, you know that? Yes, the very worst. I'll say it and won't be sorry for it. You could have atleast said goodbye. It's called _manners._"

She stood for a few minutes more, crying her tears out, but feeling no better for it. Finally, when she just couldn't take the crushing reality of the gravestone anymore, she turned and walked away.

_**Epilogue:**_

Detective Inspector Lestrade was pouring himself his fifth black coffee of the day and the ever so slight trembling of his fingers was a dead give-away of that fact, even to him. Absently, he reached up and scratched at his arm.

"Two nicotine patches? Looks like you could use some help around here."

The soft voice emerging half-hidden from behind a pillar nearly startled him into spilling his drink onto his shirt. He turned sharply.

"Here! How'd you get in?"

Jacqueline Elizabeth Holmes walked out into the light, dressed in her school uniform, plucking a pencil out from behind her ear and pointed to a paper badge pinned to her lapel.

"Student reporter. Works every time."

Despite himself, DI Lestrade had to smile.

"Y'alright, kiddo?" he asked kindly.

She tried to smile, she really did, but didn't quite manage it. Lestrade seemed to understand and reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You come to me if there's anything you ever need, a'right? Your dad might have been a smart-ass, but... he was a friend. And I think that's what I'd like to remember him as."

"Actually..."

Jackie hesitated, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

"There is a reason I came to see you..."

Lestrade looked at her questioningly.

Jackie drew herself up and looked him in the eye.

"Inspector, I want to learn to be a detective. Like my father was. Can you teach me?"


	9. The Empty Girl

**_A/N: Set during the first part of "The Empty Hearse", Sherlock and Jackie's reactions on coming face to face with each other after two long years..._**

_Mycroft: "It's been two years. They've gotten on with their lives."_

_Sherlock: "What lives? I've been away."_

_..._

_Mycroft: "You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."_

_Sherlock: "No it isn't."_

_[Season 3, Episode 1, "The Empty Hearse".]_

* * *

Just another day at the office.

The fact that that office happened to be the new Scotland Yard didn't really make a difference, Jackie thought as she entered her small flat and heaved a quiet sigh, tossing the keys into a small bowl kept by the door. She switched on the lights and paused, her shoulders slumping slightly as she took in the emptiness.

_What did you expect?_ she chided herself.

Michael had wanted to come over, just as he did every night.

_You were the one who refused him. _

She needed some alone time, she'd told him.

She took off her coat and hung it up, then kicked off her shoes and padded towards her bedroom on stockinged feet, unbuttoning her blouse as she went. She changed her mind midway and headed for the kitchen. A quick rummaging of the top shelves soon informed her she was fresh out of both vodka and wine. She tossed the empty bottles into recycling and took down the only bottle that remained.

_Tennessee bourbon. Yuck! _Michael's signature drink. Only an American could stomach the stuff.

Her need for fortification though soon overcame her preference and she poured two fingers in a clean glass and popped in a couple of ice cubes to take the edge off. Swilling her drink absent-mindedly in her hand, she headed back to the bedroom.

She had just gotten out of her clothes and was running a hand through her loose brown hair, fighting fatigue to go take a shower, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Somehow she never quite recognised her reflection these days. Clad now only in a slinky black shift which clung very attractively to her figure, she still found herself looking rather world-weary, something she had never noticed in herself two years ago.

Of course, two years ago her world had been quite different.

Suddenly, her ears pricked. She'd heard something. Somebody else was in her flat! All instincts instantly on edge, she reached for her gun where she'd kept it on the dresser.

A moment later, her bedroom door flew open and she brought up her weapon cocked unmercifully at the middle of the unexpected intruder's forehead.

* * *

Sherlock stood frozen at the entrance to his daughter's bedroom, taking in the bizarre scene in front of him. He was acutely aware of the presence of the gun in her hands, still pointed relentlessly at him. But it was the sight of the young woman behind it which had hit him like a sledgehammer as soon as he'd entered.

More than two years had elapsed since he'd seen her last, storming angrily out of his life, but he had somehow still expected to find the same fiery teenaged girl he had left behind. That expectation was now well and truly shattered.

How old was she now? She couldn't be more than nineteen, and yet she could have passed for an experienced twenty-five with almost no effort. Her steel-grey eyes had hardened over the loss of far too much innocence and her face had adjusted to match.

Sherlock had absolutely no doubt she was fully capable and willing to use her weapon in as effective a manner as possible.

Perhaps in this one case he ought to have heeded Mycroft's advice. Maybe he really wasn't welcome after all.

They had been facing off without a word exchanged between them for quite a few seconds now and she still hadn't pulled the trigger. Sherlock could see uncertainty, hesitation and a great deal of pain beginning to cloud Jackie's eyes. She shifted her stance almost imperceptibly, never letting up her point-blank range, but he felt her gaze search his figure.

He took the opportunity and quickly scanned the contents of her room to get an indication of what her life had been like since he'd left. All he could see were signs of his own overpowering guilt.

Sherlock blinked and took a cautious step forward, taking care to keep his arms raised all the same.

Jackie made a half-threatening gesture with her revolver and finally managed to break the silence.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Her voice sounded dry, stiff. Almost as though she was holding back tears.

Sherlock took another step forward. Still no bullet came piercing through his skull.

"It really is me, Jackie," he said at last.

"In short, not dead..."

The only indication of emotion he had from his daughter was the slight wobble of the muzzle of her weapon.

Sherlock's eyes slid to the glass still sitting untouched on the dresser.

"Whisky isn't your drink," he stated matter-of-factly.

"How would you know?"

Her voice told him she didn't believe him.

Sherlock's eyes locked with hers.

"Because I'm your father."

Jackie's lips thinned.

"Prove it," she demanded, her tone as brittle as ice.

"I was there when you had your first drink," he began slowly.

"Christmas, 2001. Rum and Coke. Your grandfather's. You were six. You mistook it for your own glass and downed a great deal of it in a gulp. Then you fainted. You were awfully sick after that. Put you off the stuff for.. oh, I don't know, ten years?"

His attempt at levity met with no response.

"I let you have your first glass of wine with me. White. A California chardonnay, three years old. That was Christmas too. The last one... before you left."

Jackie's lip trembled and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she hesitantly lowered her gun, but she didn't come running to him.

"You've got a lot of nerve, you know that?"

She didn't even look at him, fumbling with the safety on her weapon as a cover for wiping her eyes. Sherlock didn't reply, hoping his silence would convey his apology.

She looked up and he saw that her efforts had been in vain. Her tears would not stop coming and her face was turning an alarming shade of red as she fought against her overpowering emotions.

But still she didn't step forward and Sherlock didn't dare approach to comfort her. He simply braced himself.

"Yes...I have been led to believe that."

"You met Uncle John?"

"Yes."

The silence between them lengthened, but neither of them moved from their places.

"Uncle Mycroft knew, I suppose?" Jackie ventured, after a while. Sherlock nodded, wondering if this conversation, too, would go the way it had with John.

Jackie looked at him searchingly for a moment and then nodded reflectively herself, as though he had just confirmed a long-standing suspicion.

She turned on her heel, tossing her gun onto her bed and walked towards the dresser, first wrenching out a tissue to blow her nose and then taking up the whisky glass and downing it in a practiced shot.

Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly collected himself.

Sidling a little closer to her now, he noticed the rigid fashion with which she gripped the wooden edges and decided to change the subject.

"How's your mother?" he asked, attempting casual conversation.

"She's dead."

That brought him up short.

"What?"

It came out before he could stop himself.

Jackie turned to look at him, her eyes hard and cold.

"A few months ago."

Sherlock swayed a little on his feet, fighting his instinct to take his daughter into his arms, knowing at this juncture it would not be welcome.

"H-how?" he stammered out.

"She'd started taking pills. Lots of pills. One day she took too many. I was there, in the hospital at the end. She couldn't even recognise who I was anymore. I told her husband he could have her money and walked out. He and I never got along in the first place. I'd moved out first chance I got."

Sherlock lifted a hand to his face only to find it shaking violently.

"Mycroft never told me..." he breathed out.

Jackie shrugged, folding her arms against her chest.

"I don't suppose it was the sort of thing he would have considered... important."

Sherlock lifted pleading eyes to hers, but met no sympathy there.

"Jackie... please..."

He knew now no apology would ever be enough, but he had to try.

It seemed Jackie had regained control of herself. Her eyes were dry and she seemed relatively composed.

"No, I understand. Why you left. What you do. I think it's repulsive, but I understand. Especially now, doing the work I do."

Something ached painfully in Sherlock's heart. He remembered well the terse encrypted messages Mycroft had sent him, informing him of Jackie's decisions.

"Your uncle told me you refused to go to Cambridge..."

He wondered if he was doing the right thing, bringing this up now.

Jackie heaved a very adult-sounding sigh and played with her glass, probably debating the need for a refill.

"I couldn't..."

"Why not?"

She stepped away and this time looked him frankly in the eyes.

"Because, Father, believe it or not, your 'death' left me more broken than you'd like to imagine. I simply didn't have the strength to go to college, not after that."

Sherlock winced. He had wronged her in so many ways, he couldn't even begin to count.

"Besides, I'm good at what I do. I'm not you, of course, but... Lestrade will tell you. Calls me his 'star pupil'. Have you met him?"

Jackie turned without waiting for his affirmation and picked up her phone. Absorbed in it, she walked into the bathroom, apparently signalling the end of their conversation.

Sherlock was left bemused at this sudden change in her. Had he been forgiven? Or was this only a prelude to total rejection?

"Jackie?" he called and waited until her head appeared around the door, eyebrows raised in question.

"Hmmm?"

He struggled for a bit to find the words.

"I've missed you."

He put as much honest emotion into it as he could, which, surprisingly enough, he found wasn't difficult to do at all.

Something in his daughter's eyes softened ever so slightly.

"I missed you too, Daddy," she said at last.

He ducked to hide his smile of triumph before turning to leave.

"Daddy?"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. She was still standing there, barefoot, dressed only in a silky black slip, her phone in one hand, but she was chewing on her lower lip, a small crease forming in between her brows.

"How did you know I wasn't going to shoot you?"

Sherlock's lips twisted upward. He looked down and tapped out something on his phone. Jackie's mobile began to ring and she looked down at it in surprise. A caller ID was flashing, one she hadn't seen in over two and a half years:

_Daddy calling._

She looked up, her mouth still slightly open.

Sherlock was grinning.

"Because I'm your father, darling. I knew you wouldn't give up on me. Just like I knew you wouldn't have deleted my number. Not just yet."


End file.
